(C)

See what I’m talking about. My hands are shaking. I walked home. Somebody pulled over on the side of the road. Asked me where Southern is. They were looking for some liquor store. I didn’t have a clue what he was saying. I couldn’t understand him. He was slurring his words, almost if he was mentally handicapped. But he wasn’t. I think he was drunk. I was still dreaming. English was ugly today.

I just woke up. I walked home. Been sleeping until four lately. This is a weird feeling. This is all I can think about. I feel my body, too much lately. Feel the night once again coming. This is when I wake up. This is when I see clearly. This is when nobody else is around. This is when I’m by myself.

And the speed of my words go in circles and up and down and where am I now? Where do I have to go and who do I have to meet? Do I need to keep singing my songs? Is there more to write about then just this, then this silly omnipresent thought process?

This is a warm up for the day, sunlight that I will never live, a laugh track, a harmony, a chorus without any verse. The sun and its reflections off of all of these old homes are already fading. I drink to wake up. Eat to wake up. I blink, I wait, I smile to see something. Darkness.